by Chris Ryan
‘And what do they want?’ asked Porter.
‘Power, like all terrorist organisations,’ said Gilton. ‘You’ll get a lot of rhetoric about Islamic revolutions, and fighting the infidel, and all the usual nonsense. That’s just to help them recruit. Hezbollah is primarily a political movement intent upon dominating the Lebanon, and particularly southern Lebanon. They are closely allied to the Iranians, and they believe in a Shiite theocracy, but they believe mostly in themselves.’
Porter straightened up in his chair. He knew he was being examined as well as informed: they were looking to see how fast his mind still worked, and how well he could absorb information. He was still feeling hungry, so he grabbed another tuna sandwich. ‘Then why do they care about our boys in Iraq?’
‘Because the Iranians do,’ said Gilton. ‘The Iranians are desperate to get the British out of Basra as quickly as possible, because that way they can dominate the area. Southern Iraq is Shiite as well, and it’s going to be virtually an Iranian puppet state once we get out of the way.’
‘So they’re doing the dirty work …’
‘Precisely,’ said the professor. ‘The Iranians don’t want to start kidnapping British hostages and threatening to behead them. They don’t have much of an image in the world, but even for them that is a step too far. They get Hezbollah to do it for them, and since they are the main supplier of money and arms to that organisation, they don’t have much choice but to go along. Hezbollah take the girl, demand that British troops get out of Basra, and the Iranians can move into southern Iraq, which is where most of the oil is incidentally, unopposed. Meanwhile their hands are clean.’
‘So it’s not just some random kidnapping?’
‘Not a bit of it,’ said Gilton. ‘They have a plan, and I have to admit a pretty clever one. It all fits together very well. They know just how vulnerable British public opinion is over Iraq, and they picked Katie Dartmouth because she is young, attractive and popular, and because they knew the story would get round-the-clock coverage. They knew there was a by-election coming up next month as well, and if the government loses that, then the PM is probably toast. Like I said, it’s a plan, and a damned clever one.’
Sir Angus leant back in his chair. ‘So maybe the only flaw in the plan is you, Porter,’ he said. ‘They didn’t reckon on you.’
‘What are their weaknesses?’ asked Porter.
‘They don’t really have any, I’m afraid,’ said Gilton. ‘Hezbollah is a tight-knit organisation. There are none of the splits between the military and political wings you used to get with the IRA, for example. And there’s none of the factionalism you get within al-Qaeda. They have their orders, and they’ll execute them ruthlessly.’
‘But it’s not their war,’ said Porter.
‘Right, that’s our one advantage,’ said Gilton. ‘They’ve taken Katie Dartmouth to help the Iranians. They don’t themselves care very much whether the British are in Iraq or not. Israel is the enemy for them. If you get into conversation with them, you need to hammer home that point. This isn’t really their fight. They’re just working for the Iranians. If you can persuade them to believe that, then maybe you can start to weaken their resolve.’
‘It’s not going to work, is it?’ said Porter. ‘I mean, they don’t care what I think of them.’
The professor remained silent. He probably knows that as well I do, thought Porter, you can’t talk these bastards out of anything. There was more coffee, and another plate of sandwiches before Gilton shuffled out of the room and Sir Angus brought in David Provost. A thin, intense man, with reading glasses, and blond hair that was combed across his forehead, he glanced briefly at Porter before taking his seat and reaching for a glass of water. He was described as the Firm’s top hostage expert: he’d visited sieges all over the world, and studied the subject for years. There was nothing he didn’t know about kidnappers, and how to deal with them.
‘There’s just one major principle in every hostage negotiation,’ he said, looking at Porter. ‘Keep the conversation going. It doesn’t really matter what you’re talking about, or whether the discussion seems to be going anywhere. Every minute you spend talking achieves two things, and they are both important for you. One, it delays the moment of execution. When they’re talking, they aren’t killing. Next, it draws you closer to the kidnappers. The more of a relationship you build up, the harder it becomes for them to kill the victim.’
‘So what do I talk to them about?’ asked Porter.
‘First, find out what they want,’ said Provost. ‘One thing you learn about most kidnappers is, they say they want one thing, but they really want something else completely. You need to burrow away at that. Dig and dig, and find out if there is something else that would satisfy them.’
‘Like what?’ said Porter. ‘They’ve said they want British troops out of Iraq and Afghanistan. How the hell am I meant to negotiate that?’
Provost ran a hand through his stringy hair, and glanced nervously across at Sir Angus. Porter sensed he wasn’t being told everything. The Firm had its own ideas and plans, and they weren’t about to let him into their secrets. For all I know, he thought, they might even have started negotiating with Hassad without thinking to tell me.
‘Again, that’s what they say they want,’ said Provost ‘Don’t believe it. They can’t really expect a whole British Army to be withdrawn in response to a single kidnapping. So, there’s your answer. That’s not what they want at all.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘Publicity,’ said Provost firmly. ‘Look at how they are operating. Who do they kidnap? A TV journalist. If you want to influence politics, you kidnap a politician. If you want money, you kidnap a businessman. But if it’s publicity you want, then you kidnap a journalist, particularly a pretty blonde one.’
‘And they’ve certainly got it.’
‘Right,’ said Provost. ‘But the point is, there is no more perishable commodity. Katie Dartmouth might as well have a sell-by date stamped on her forehead. As soon as they kill her, the story is dead too. So what you need to do is string it out for them. Keep reminding them that when they kill her, they’ve basically lost. They haven’t got the troops out, and in a few days’ time they are not going to be in the news any more either.’
‘Why the hell should they listen to me?’ said Porter.
‘That’s the first thing to do, engage them in conversation. Make it clear that you sympathise with them, and then they’ll start listening. The next thing to do is to get them talking to Katie. From the picture they’ve put out on the Web, she is bound and gagged. That’s no good. Tell them she needs water and food, and she needs to breathe more easily. Do anything to get that gag off her. As soon as you’ve done that, get her talking. About anything, it doesn’t matter what. If needs be, the two of you should sit there chatting. At the moment, she’s just a symbol, and they are easy to kill. Turn her into a human being, however, and it gets a lot harder.’
‘I need to be able to offer them something,’ said Porter.
‘We’ll get to that later,’ said Sir Angus.
Porter nodded. We’re not getting anywhere, he told himself. All this talking isn’t going to make any difference to anyone.
‘When you get out there, Sir Angus will have given you some concessions you can make,’ continued Provost. ‘Every hostage negotiator always has those. You go in knowing what concessions you’ll make, but never make them right away. You need to feed them out slowly. That way the other side feel like they are extracting something from you.’
‘Any questions?’ said Sir Angus.
Porter rested his arms on the desk. ‘So, in your experience, has anyone ever negotiated a hostage out of Hezbollah?’
Provost coughed, and glanced at Sir Angus. ‘No,’ he said crisply.
‘Then I better have a plan B,’ growled Porter.
The coffee tasted good. Porter sipped on it slowly as he waited for the next talking head to be wheeled into the room. Layla h
ad disappeared to get a fresh pot by the time Ken Stuart was led into the room. He was wearing cream cargo trousers, a blue jacket and a pink open-necked shirt. His dark hair was worn long, but his face was lined and craggy, making him look a lot older than his forty years.
‘Ken is in charge of Sky News,’ said Sir Angus. From his expression, Porter judged Sir Angus didn’t much care for journalists, and would be relieved when he could get Stuart off the premises. ‘We’re completely off the record here, and he’s agreed that not a word of your mission will be leaked on air. But he knows Katie better than anyone, so he might be able to help us.’
Stuart scrutinised Porter’s face like it was an exhibit in a museum: his eyes ran across him, probing and questioning as he scoured his features. ‘You’re really going out there?’ he asked.
‘Tomorrow morning,’ said Porter.
Stuart nodded. ‘She’ll be damned pleased to see you.’
‘What’s she like?’
Stuart paused before replying, giving himself space to think. ‘Most TV journalists are pretty tough, particularly the ones that get sent abroad,’ he said. ‘But even among a hardened breed Katie stood out for her toughness. Forget all that soft-soap stuff we’ve been putting on air for the last few days about Katie as the nation’s darling, the kind-hearted girl from the Hampshire village. It’s just for the ratings, twenty-four-hour TV news is a competitive business, and we couldn’t afford to let an opportunity like that pass us by. Katie’s a great girl. She works hard, and she doesn’t mind bruising a few egos if she needs to get a story on the air fast, but her heart’s in the right place.’
‘What’s her background?’ said Porter.
‘She went to Cambridge, and read English, just like they all do,’ Ken answered. ‘Then she got a job in local TV news, down in Devon, and did that for a couple of years, before joining Sky. We put her on the regional news beat for a couple of years but she was clearly a star right from the start. The camera loves her.’
‘And you think she’ll hold up under captivity?’
Stuart sighed. ‘We’ve seen the pictures of her, and there are more you can get off the Web that we haven’t even wanted to broadcast. Let’s face it, she’s bound and gagged, and we don’t even know if she’s been given anything to eat or drink in the past few days. We can’t be certain, but the chances are she knows they are threatening to execute her in a few days’ time. I don’t know how anyone would hold up in those circumstances. But I’ll tell you this much, if anyone can, then Katie can.’
Porter nodded. There was nothing left to ask. The woman was unlucky, that was all. They needed a British TV personality, and she just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. ‘One thing you should know,’ Stuart added. ‘I think she might have had some kind of relationship with Sir Perry Collinson.’
Sir Angus looked bored: that piece of gossip is already on his files, Porter decided.
‘You sure?’ asked Porter.
Stuart shrugged. ‘Just newsroom gossip, which is never the most reliable of sources,’ he said. ‘But she did a threepart series of specials on him just over a year ago, the same time that his book was on the best-seller charts. Afterwards, they were seen at a couple of drinks parties together. I don’t mean to be sexist, but Katie didn’t mind sleeping with her contacts, at least from what I hear. It doesn’t even have to be that cynical. She’s a young single woman, and she likes powerful older men. Nothing strange about that.’
‘Thanks, that’s all,’ interrupted Sir Angus.
Stuart started walking from the room. As he passed Porter, he paused, resting his hand on his shoulder. ‘She’s not a bad kid, so do your best. We’ll all be rooting for you.’
Porter nodded. ‘If I can,’ he said, ‘I will.’
Stuart grinned. ‘And don’t forget to take some hairspray with you. If by some miracle you get her out of there, we want her right on camera. And if you don’t give her something to fix her hair, then you really will be in trouble.’
ELEVEN
The food tasted surprisingly good. A rack of lamb, with a thick herb crust, some minted new potatoes, the plate heaped with other steamed vegetables. All it needed was a nice bottle of Merlot and a shot of vodka and the meal would be perfect. Even the row of brightly coloured vitamin pills laid out on the table couldn’t spoil Porter’s enjoyment of it.
A condemned man’s last meal, he thought to himself, as he chewed on a lamb bone. They know I haven’t got much chance of coming back dressed in anything other than a wooden overcoat. At least they’re giving me a decent sendoff.
Sir Angus stepped into the room. He sat down opposite Porter, picking up a bread roll and chewing on it absentmindedly. ‘Surprised they haven’t given you any wine with that,’ he said, nodding towards the food.
‘If they could –’
‘Porter’s not drinking right now,’ interrupted Layla. ‘Doctor’s orders.’
‘I’ve drunk enough over the years,’ said Porter. ‘One more isn’t going to hurt me.’
Sir Angus nodded. ‘I’ve seen the medical reports, if they say no juice, then there is no juice,’ he snapped. ‘Two hundred and fifty grand is a hell of a deal, and for that kind of money, I don’t expect you just to be on the payroll, clocking in, keeping your nose clean, and waiting until you can bugger off home.’ He leant in so close, Porter could smell the aftershave on his smoothly shaven skin. ‘I expect to own you. Whatever I want, you do it. That understood?’
Porter nodded. He spooned some more potatoes onto his plate and carried on eating. They were fattening him for something, he knew that, but like a turkey just before Christmas, it wasn’t any reason for not eating the grub. ‘If you want someone else to go and get Katie Dartmouth out, feel free, mate,’ he said, a slow smile spreading over his lips. ‘I won’t be offended or anything. In fact, I’m quite happy just sitting here.’
‘You’re going all right,’ said Sir Angus. ‘Tomorrow morning.’ He spread some papers out on the table. ‘OK, this is the plan,’ he started. ‘Layla, give him the details.’
‘When we’ve finished up here, you get straight to bed,’ said Layla. ‘We don’t really have any idea when you might sleep again, so the more you can get tonight the better. The doctors still want you on antibiotics, so we’ll make sure they give you something for some shut-eye as well. The BA flight for Beirut leaves Heathrow at eight, and takes four hours, forty-five minutes. We need to be out of here at six at the latest. I’ll be taking you to the airport, and the cars are already booked. There’ll be some police vehicles tracking us en route, but nothing high profile. BA have been notified, but we haven’t asked for any special favours, except that they put us in the VIP lounge so we don’t have to queue up at check-in like everyone else. We’ve block-booked three rows of seats near the middle of the A320 that BA uses for that route. All of them will be occupied by our people, but they won’t be making themselves known to you, and you shouldn’t make yourself known to them. It’s just a precaution so that no one can get close to you on the flight. We aren’t expecting any trouble, but in case anything happens, we’ll be prepared.’
Danni came into the room, and cleared away the plate of lamb. She put down a bowl of chocolate mousse, and refilled his water glass. Her hand appeared to brush against the side of his jacket, he felt certain of it, and she hovered beside him clearing away the cutlery for a fraction of a second longer than was necessary. Stop kidding yourself, mate, Porter told himself. She’s not going to be interested in an old bum like you. There’s no harm in looking, never is, but there’s no point in fooling yourself you’re going to get anywhere.
He dipped his spoon into the pudding. Chocolate mousse is the closest you’re getting to any sensory pleasure this or any other night.
‘Hey, vitamins first,’ said Layla sharply. ‘Remember what the doctor said.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Porter, tossing a couple of green pills into the back of his throat and washing them down with some water. ‘Deficient in
every major vitamin group except B. The amount I’ve been eating, I must have started fixing that by now.’
‘Once you touch down, you say goodbye to Layla here, and walk through customs as normal,’ said Sir Angus, interrupting the conversation. ‘Ever been to Rafik Hariri airport?’
Porter shook his head. ‘Last time I was in Beirut, I was dropped in by a Puma chopper, and I was carrying an M16 rather than a passport.’
‘This time we’ll try and make it a bit more official,’ said Sir Angus. ‘Our man in the city will be looking out for you. A chap called Ben Stanton. He’s a good man, and he knows the drill so don’t bother looking for him. He’ll find you and have a car waiting. Once he’s got hold of you, just walk casually, and chat to the guy like you’re a couple of old drinking mates meeting up for a jolly. Beirut airport is probably teeming with more spies than any other place in the world, and they are all damned good at what they do. The Lebanese may not seem to be up to much apart from running kebab shops on the Edgware Road, but they do know how to spy, so if you do anything suspicious, anything out of the ordinary, you can be damned sure someone will spot it, and then you really could be in trouble.’
‘You mean more trouble than turning myself over to a bunch of brutal kidnappers …’
